


Ride of Your Life

by Missy



Category: Burn Notice
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Motorcycle Sex, Motorcycles, Outdoor Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 04:09:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael and Fiona, outdoors, right at the beginning of Season 5.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ride of Your Life

_When you’re dating an adrenalin junkie,_ Michael Westen tells himself as he speeds through the Argentinian jungle, _the only thing you need to do is keep up. It doesn’t matter if you win or lose – as long as your target’s on your good side._ He punches the gas as the motor whines. It’s no time for an internal monologue, not when Fiona’s spinning her bike around in a perfect circle and roars to a quick stop, but he can’t seem to help himself as he skids to a stop and powers down the engine. _Just keep hydrated and be vigilant enough to avoid dying a terrible, violent death and you’ll be in for the ride of your life._

Fiona rips off her helmet, panting, while Michael removes his leather gloves and tosses them across the handlebar of his motorcycle. “You cheated,” she says, dismounting and approaching him.

“Cheated?” Michael scoffs, breaching the last distance. “I wasn’t the one who jumped two sets of roots five miles back.”

“I had to avoid those vines,” she declares, her right arm sliding around his waist. “I haven’t come this far just to be beheaded in a jungle…” he cut off the rest of her speech with his lips.

They move toward one another like heat-seeking missiles, flesh pressing against flesh through the layers of leather. Her fingers opened and closed like a claw against his ass, gaining purchase as they slide up toward his hip, her other arm, then a leg, clinging to him. 

Her kiss is a scarification, and those claws turn into talons against his back. Nails rip up the surface of his leather jacket and bite into his scalp as he wrestles her backward across the seat of her bike. Michael kisses her limp, his tongue agile, but some part of him expects to be thrown to the ground by some sudden whim of hers. Instead when he rises, struggling free of her strong grip, he meets a pair of lambent and staring green eyes. Captivated, his hand reaches blindly down toward the zipper sticking straight up at the base of her throat. The jacket and catsuit are unzipped with a jerk of his wrist, and it bares her immediately from throat to hip in a single gesture. 

“You’re not wearing underwear,” he notices abruptly, his mouth trailing down her tanned neck toward her right breast. He doesn’t have time to realize how stupid the statement is before she’s shoving his head toward her nipple.

“In this outfit? Really, Michael…” she begins, but the words are choked off by a purr as he takes the tight pink bud of flesh between his teeth and gives it a firm tug. He knows her too well, understands by her moans, sighs, the rocking of her hips when he should switch from one breast to the other, when he should turn his attention toward biting her throat and put his hands to better use fondling what he’s so recently uncovered.

Fiona’s skin is goosebump-coated, even though she must be baking under all of her protective leather judging from the way sweat beads upon her trembling skin. Her hair tumbles over her shoulders as she tosses her head in ecstasy. Somehow, she endures his teasing for a few more moments - her willpower finally shattering in tune to the tug of his teeth on her nipple, her hands shooting out to grasp him by his wrist and drag his hand down the bone-sharpened plane of her abdomen. 

At last his knuckles scrape across the wet open heat. Michael feels her relief combine with a sudden increase in tension, her lust transmitting itself to him and echoing deep within his balls. “Oh God,” Fiona breathes, her small breasts rising and falling in perfect synchronicity with the stroke of Michael’s tongue, his fingers. As her bucking takes on a precarious violence he increases his teasing twicefold, thrusting two fingers inside of her to a regular, jabbing rhythm, chewing lightly on the nipple he’d seized before switching to its twin. For Michael it’s the coordinated rhythm of a dance he’s done a million time, and even the unstable positioning of the motorbike isn’t enough to divert his attention. He deftly unzips himself with his free hand, gives his cock a quick, teasing stroke, then focuses all of his attention on bringing her off.

In the end, it’s all about desperation, his fingers roughly scraping toward her clit and pinching it between his thumb and index finger. Michael keeps his head down as Fiona’s muscles stiffen and she lets out a halting, choked moan of pleasure. His thumb gently abrades what he pinched and the tension ratchets upward in her frame, finally breaking with a gutshot sound from Fiona. Her hands jerk toward her sex, clasping his palm, trapping it between the leather and her fingers. She does shriek at that point, her voice a nymph’s wail as her sex collapses in a wave around him, her stomach drawing down and tight as she collapses against the handlebars quietly.

Moments pass and Michael counts out the drumbeat of his pulse, the echo of it within his iron-hard cock. Fi takes no more than a moment before stirring and opening her eyes. Michael grins down at her arrogantly while she gives him a dazed smile.

Fiona Glenanne makes it damn hard for him to avoid being smug.

“Did you want something Michael?”

“Fi!” his voice was a squeaky croak in spite of his effort to keep his neutral tone.

“Right. Your turn, then,” she says, loving and yet completely practical, taking his cock in hand and pumping it twice.

That’s all it takes this time, and he grits his teeth as he goes over, painting her face and the side of the bike with his release. Then it’s fifteen minutes of being held while his knees shake before he slides backward, onto his behind in the tall grass, pulling her off the bike and onto his lap.

He comes to with her lying sleepily against his chest, her legs scissored around his waist and the sticky adhesion of the leather and sweat gluing them together. He wrenches his numb wrist upward, zipping her catsuit back up along the way. She murmurs contentedly without noticing. Drugged by the cozy warmth of the day, Michael finally breaks the silence. “Fi?”

“Mmmm,” she repeats, tossing her forearm across her eyes to blot out the sun.

“I won,” he brags, lounging beside her in the grass, the sun warming whatever part of him that dares not touch her. Every muscle in his body screams in protest but he feels like he always does when he and Fiona finish making love.

Like a million bucks.

**Author's Note:**

> This work contains characters from **Burn Notice**. The author has no legal claim upon these characters, and this fiction is a work of fannish tribute, from which no money was made.


End file.
